


About Us, Parting

by averynicecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Custom Hawke, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Weisshaupt, Purple Hawke, Skyhold, her name is Korani and she's a sarcastic piece of garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averynicecake/pseuds/averynicecake
Summary: Varric struggles with his duties after the events at Adamant, Hawke dreads her departure for Weisshaupt, but too much relies on it for her to voice her concern. She's been known to press an issue until it runs dry, and he knows how to work her buttons the way she doesn't.There is no 'part' about them. There is only parting.There is no quick fix, but when has that ever stopped Hawke?





	About Us, Parting

**Author's Note:**

> Korani is pronounced Kor-AH-nee, like the 'ah' in father.  
> Feel free to replace her name with your Hawke's name in your head, I'm just very attached to her.

Skyhold, for all its fancy tapestries and burnished gold candelabras, was so poorly insulated that come autumn, its corridors became cold and gloomy as tombs. Frost left its fingerprints smeared across every surface, and when the weak heat of bodies desperately huddled for warmth began to melt it, the smell of damp hung heavily in the air. It was a scent that imbedded itself in fabric and left every man's shirt soggy and limp, punishing mankind with dank bedsheets and clammy, mottled skin. No corner remained wholly untouched, but there were a few spots where the windows opened a touch more, and as such, the walls were a little drier, and the ventilation fresher.

Any habitable rooms had been offered to Inquisitor Lavellan at once, and while she'd jumped at the opportunity to have a bedroom that didn't reek of mildew, she was not selfish enough to keep everything to herself, and had given her most loyal companions each a place to stay. Sera had the room in the tavern, overlooking the beaten-down grass and Orlesian merchants, Bull had the basement behind the stables that led into a cellar packed with wine nobody had touched for years, and Varric had the secluded alcove-come-study beside the Inquisitor's personal quarters.

Out of the three, the dwarf had by far been the luckiest. While his fellow archer enjoyed her garishly-decorated room, there was little in there that she had any interest in, and although Bull had enjoyed his wine, he was far too large to have it last very long. Varric, on the other hand, had everything he needed; a small, arched window that opened out onto the prettier side of Ferelden, stones that didn't drip when winter came, and most importantly, _quiet_. As well as making for a calmer sleeping environment, it meant he could _actually work_. Nowadays he rarely had the time to pick up his quill and let his mind loose on a tale, but on the occasion he did, it was imperative that no noise was made, else he would lose his mind in a whole spectrum of manners. Recent events had called for his creative hands to start work again, and had it not been for Lavellan's giving nature, he'd surely have gone mad.

Varric's hands sifted through tattered stacks of parchment, ink stains marking his fingerprints, smearing across the borders of scratched out writing and blotted mistakes. There was one cluster in particular he was looking for, but to find it in such a cluttered mountain of paper was not an easy feat by any means. It could well take days before he got anywhere near the script. Predictable as it was that he came back to a story a while after writing it to scrap a few pages and start over, it had been a lot longer than the usual few months since he had touched this particular saga. In fact, years had passed since he'd looked at an unpublished copy of _Tales of the Champion_ , and while he quite missed the way Hawke would stare death in the eye and fight back with comical bravado, bile rose in his throat from the memories that the book contained, and how it made him recall the sleepless struggle he'd gone through trying to find a way to make it all seem romantic and glorious, all while trying not to break down sobbing. Undocumented thoughts were always worse than the physically visible. Hawke's arrival in Skyhold had made him feel uneasy, and rightfully so. It had been so frustratingly, lonesomely long since the two had spoken in person, and circumstances wouldn't exactly allow a joyous, tearful reunion full of anecdotes and affection, which was the only reunion he would accept for such a divinely incredible friend. He missed her dearly, wanted to see her more than anything in the world, but not like that. A night alone with a few drinks would be nice, or a long chat over hot coffee and Orlesian pastries. He deserved at least one night without Corypheus trying to shred them into ribbons to decorate his shoes, or weave into ridiculous stockings. It was foolish to hope, and even more so to put off contact because of self-indulgent wishes. The choice was between depriving the Inquisitor of a powerful hand because he wanted to wait until the right time, not to mention that Cassandra would have his head impaled on a pike and wield it in battle, or spontaneously launching his best friend into a war he'd started in hopes it would save the world. He wasn't sure which was more selfish.

“If you don't start looking at what you're doing, you'll give yourself a paper cut.”

Startled, he turned in his chair and found Hawke in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed and brows fully arched. Lips curved up in a smirk he knew too well, striking blue eyes half-lidded, smudged remnants of warpaint smeared across her cheeks, she looked smug in a feline way – stealthy and confident. No matter her outward expression, her eyebrows were her give, just as they always had been. Scowling when she was mad, furrowing as she grieved, one arched every time she caused a noble to piss himself in shame, and both raised when her mind was beyond her own reaches. He'd never told her, of course. How else was he supposed to read a woman so enigmatic?

“Please,” he scoffed, “if paper were that sharp I'd have no use for my tongue.”

Hawke barked a laugh. “There are plenty of other uses for your tongue – or could it be that Bianca's more of a straight-up rutting kind of girl?”

Varric chuckled, letting his papers drop. “Ouch. You always know where to hit me, huh?” He gestured to the stool opposite his desk – the Inquisitor's desk, which she'd generously let him pilfer. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She settled into the stiff chair, a disappointed frown growing on her face as she felt the discomfort of the splintered wood, and heard it creak under her weight. “This place needs better furniture. Nicer drapery, too. It looks as if you've peeled a very large onion and decided the skin would make for a lovely pair of curtains.” She wrinkled her nose. “Eugh. Smells like it, too.”

“Cullen's mabari pup,” Varric explained, digging back into his chaotic collection. “This was the only place we could keep her without every piece of furniture being whittled into sticks. She gave the desk a try but it seems she just doesn't like the taste of mahogany. Too tough for her baby fangs.”

“Oh, I remember Hadric's chewing phase. Shredded every moveable object in Lothering. Carver ended up putting boards at his door, but he chewed those too.” She smiled wistfully at the floor. “I miss the old thing. Great big slobbery moron, though he was.”

“He's dead?” Hawke nodded slowly, as if half her brain was processing something else. “Damn, I'm sorry. I'll admit, he grew on me. Never really been one for dogs, but Hadric... When did he pass?”

“About two years ago. Mixture of old age and heartbreak, I think. He pined after Fenris for a month before he died, bless him.” She seemed to blink away a cacophony of thoughts, shaking her head clear. “Andraste's sacred asshole, Varric, it really has been too long.”

Varric's ears pricked in an almost catlike manner. “'Pined after'? Am I missing something?”

The Champion cocked her head at him. “You didn't get my letters? I sent them to the Hanged Man.” Something visibly clicked in her mind, and her face fell. Fingers shot up to press her temples. “Of course you didn't get them. They'd open any mail before it reached the door.” She squeezed her eyelids shut, swept back more than just ordinary hesitance, clearing her throat. “Fenris and I are no longer together. He upped and left one night without saying goodbye. Left a note on my nightstand, but it wasn't exactly intelligible – something about not being able to cope with me being away so much.”

“Shit,” the dwarf said, “shit, Hawke, are you alright?”

“Would be better if you'd received my letters, but yes, I'm fine. It was a long time coming. I draw trouble like moths to a flame, and my head was busy with thoughts of... someone else.” Hawke sighed, regret taking refuge in her eyes, and turned her head to one side as if evading a bright light. “I should've ended it civilly, really, but when you're ass-deep in turncoat Templars, there's little time for such frivolities.” They both huffed half-hearted laughs.

“You said something about someone else? Did you manage to pursue them?” Varric pried, reaching for a balding quill and using it to scratch out a few strongly-worded phrases he'd used in a note to describe Vivienne.

“I'm trying to, but it's a slow process. Flirting isn't exactly my greatest talent.”

“Is it someone I know, or might otherwise be able to pass my excellent judgement on?”

“Yes,” she said, and met his eyes with a stern look that told him to refrain from pressing the matter any further.

A stiff silence settled over the two old friends, telling of unspoken isolation, issues and longing from the time they'd spent apart. A strange sort of jealousy pooled into Varric's chest when his eyes fell upon Hawke's bare arms and saw scars of wounds he hadn't been there to dress. He quickly diverted his gaze back to his work, and sought comfort in his searches. He felt a little safer looking for paper Hawke. Real Hawke was bold, brash, full of snark and wit. Real Hawke was short and powerful, had ice-blonde hair that fell in gentle curls around her shoulders, soft and thick, just like the rest of her. Real Hawke was more than just a two-dimensional hero; she had sharp emotions and a wise mind, cared more about her friends than she let on, kissed every wound better, talked every problem through, meant every word she said, supported every soul she could, never let a man fall by her side without ensuring his family was consoled as long as they mourned. Real Hawke was _real_ , and she was enrapturing and captivating in the fleshed-out way that paper Hawke couldn't be, and it made Varric feel sick to his stomach that he idolised her like the sort of marvel of fiction she wanted to be, but knew she couldn't. Some time ago, he'd thought of her as a friend, a comrade, a warrior just as scared and reckless as he was, but their partnership had gotten lost in time. Her absence swallowed his mind the way red lyrium had taken Bartrand – slowly building while his focus was elsewhere, developing into aggressive denial, then finally consuming him until he begged for release. He felt wrong, sullied. Guilt had taken him prisoner, locked him in someone else's adventure, and left him half-written letters and gifts addressed to _K.E. Hawke_ as memoirs. He'd always held the key to let himself out, get in touch, resume their relationship, but he'd spent so long in the dark that it had begun to feel safer.

Varric squeezed his eyes shut, cracked his knuckles, and curled his fingers around his quill. He reached for an old Merchant's Guild letter and turned it over, scribbling quickly on the back.

_**N.T.S. - send K.H.'s gifts to W.Haupt before Curly finds them and gives the third degree** _

He looked up at Hawke to see her eyes following the letters on the page, squinted with struggle from reading upside-down, and quickly flipped it over.

“Did you need me for anything in particular, or did you just drop by to catch up?” He asked, and she seemed to blink herself back to earth.

Hawke's shoulders raised in strained nonchalance. “I heard you haven't been joining in the festivities in the halls?”

His hands twitched in a preoccupied shrug, fingers busying themselves in the folds of envelopes he hadn't seen since Bartrand had been around to coax him into opening. “Not a lot to celebrate, is there? As far as I'm concerned, it's just another day where hundreds of good men are lost to one bad guy. The only difference is that this time a more powerful man was lost, so we're calling it 'heroic'.” Grunting, he tossed a handful of letters from the Merchant's Guild across his desk. “Power comes and goes. Nothing's any different. If we had parties for every man struck down by Corypheus, we'd never sleep.”

“Don't you mourn Stroud?”

“What? No, of course I mourn Stroud. I just...” Varric paused and picked at the tattered corners of a writ, eyes wandering. “I don't understand why his loss calls for celebration.”

Sitting forward and setting her hands upon the desk, Hawke dug her hands into the thick stacks of paper and pulled out a string bound manuscript. The name had been written and scratched out several times, but printed in tidy block letters underneath the errors was the book's title – her title.

He hastily snatched the copy from her hands, looking at the front page as if it were gold dust. “Andraste's tits, how did you find it so quickly? I've been looking for this for hours!” Taking fresh parchment from an open desk drawer, he turned the book on its front and unpicked the string, stuffing in a bundle.

“Would you have celebrated if it were me?” Hawke asked, and he felt his gut drop.

“That's an entirely different situation.”

“Maybe, but it's...” She seemed to consider her own words for a moment, and her cheeks tinged with pink. She scowled. “It shouldn't be.”

“Yes, it should. You're my friend. Stroud was my acquaintance. It's very different.” His fingers squeezed on the quill until the rachis began to bow. “What's your point, anyway? You know my answer.”

Hawke seemed not to respond. Varric considered the issue dropped, starting to scratch out another chapter into Tales of the Champion, when her soft, hot hands cupped over his, and their eyes met. His quill bent and snapped in his tensing fist, heart rising in his throat as he saw the desperate loneliness in his friend's eyes.

“Shit, Hawke, stop looking at me like that,” he said, but she ignored it.

“If I was the one left in the fade, would you have celebrated?” Her voice was insisting and choked, and judging by the way she squeezed Varric's hands, she noticed.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I really can't say. It would be on another scale completely. I'm not beating myself up over Stroud the way I would if it were you, because there's nothing left unsaid between us. He isn't my best friend, I didn't spend years of my life cleaning up after mess we made together only to be separated later. Stroud didn't need me to lie to a Seeker for him. Hey, maybe you should take a leaf out of his book. Would save me a lot of trouble.” He glanced briefly at Hawke, waiting for her to laugh in the merry way she would, or at least crack a smile. Nothing touched her face but a painful curiosity. “I guess,” he continued, “I guess my answer is no. No, I wouldn't rejoice in your death. I don't think I could.”

She let out a deep sigh, and the pretty azure eyes she was blessed with fluttered closed. “You have a knack of saying what I don't want to hear exactly when I don't want to hear it,” she whispered, lips pulled by a faint smile, brows tormented by a wave of angst. “It would've been easier to tell you if you cared less.” She inhaled sharply, eyes flying open, tears blurring her vision as she forced a crooked smile. “Thank you, Varric. I won't bother you any longer.”

As she stood and moved to withdraw her arms, his hands snatched at her wrists, firmly, decisively. “You're not going anywhere, Hawke; we have a deal. A story for a story, and a question for a question. You've plundered all the feelings I can dredge up, so it's my turn. Sit.”

Her tongue twisted in her mouth. “Shit.”

The dwarf dropped his hands back to the desk. Hawke sat down again, squirming. “Why did you ask me that?” She opened her mouth, and he hushed with a finger. “No shortcuts. No lies. I want the full story, and I want it to be true.”

“Shit. Andraste's fucking ass, Varric, don't make me answer this,” she pleaded, “please, you don't want to hear it.”

“If I wasn't prepared to hear it, I wouldn't have asked.”

She grumbled something under her breath. “Alright, but there will be collateral damage, and you can't put that on me now.” Her eyes sought approval which he granted in a nod. She sucked in a breath. “I really care about you. A lot.”

He blinked a few times before letting out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. “That's it? You care about me? Hawke, I know feelings don't exactly run in the family, but they're perfectly natural. I even have them sometimes.”

“Andraste's tits, Varric, don't make me spell it out for you. I've never exactly come to terms with it verbally. Maker knows how Fenris found out. I suppose he's more perceptive than he looks. Maybe he just read my private journal, like I told him not to, or... I'm probably impossibly obvious about it, aren't I? I did always smile whenever I had to read him the passages you wrote in my journal. I'm usually so good at keeping a poker face, but I never could to you unless-”

“You're losing me, Hawke,” he said, leaning back in his chair until the back began to creak. “If you don't stop talking to boost my ego, I might get the impression you're in love with me.”

Hawke seemed to choke on her own air, and her limbs grew limp, skin flushing, shoulders hunching. Her eyes strayed further from his gaze by the moment until she was staring shamefully at the corner of the room.

Varric closed his open mouth and swallowed dryly. “Oh,” he muttered, and then louder, “well. Shit.”

Hawke nodded slowly. Her legs seemed to grow as she stood shakily, making Varric feel swamped. “I'll see you when I get back from Weisshaupt,” she said, nearing the door, and then added with a light breath, “maybe,” before she caught his eye on her way out and broke into hysterical tears.

Varric sprang at the sight of Hawke crumpling under her own weight. He ducked to the floor and let his hands hover in front of her shivering body, something he hadn't seen since their early Kirkwall days. Although drowned in hesitance, he dove forwards and enveloped her in his arms.

Her shoulders felt impossibly weak under his grip, as if they were without any of the bulk she carried from the furious, intense way she used her daggers, or the softness from her healthy appetite. Her neck was steaming hot against his, and sobs throbbed in her throat like an irregular pulse. She made no effort to return the affection, just sat like a stiff puppet against his body.

“Hawke, I don't want you to be broken down about this. I'm not worth an ounce of the grief you're showing me.” He retracted from the unrequited embrace and brought his hands up to cup her face. “You are an incredible, strong woman. Unstoppable. Don't let me stop you. You don't need me.”

“I don't care if I don't need you, Varric, I _want_ you,” she insisted, gagging on her tears, “I want you so much.”

He inhaled sharply, turned his head away, and closed his eyes. “Not half as much as I want you, I promise.”

Hawke gasped, half in anguish, another in hope. “Wh- you mean that?” He looked back and smiled weakly. “Fuck, Varric, you could've led with that! You sick bastard,” she laughed under her breath and took a hand to his jaw. “What do we do about it? Tell me we're going to do something about it.”

“Hawke-”

“No, don't. Call me Korani.”

“ _Korani_ , then. You realise this won't be easy to follow. With you in Weisshaupt, and me here, and Corypheus pretty much everywhere, we'll be lucky to make it out in one piece.”

“I know.”  
“And you're willing to take that risk?”

She snorted. “Have I ever been one to turn something down on the basis of risk?”

“Ah, I suppose not,” he chuckled.

“Are you? Willing to risk it, I mean.”

“Shit, Korani, of course I am. I'd ride a Nuggalope ass-naked to Tevinter if I thought it would bring us together.”

“You're welcome to do that too.”

Varric swatted at her shoulder and laughed from the pit of his stomach. “Shut up and let me kiss you, ass.”

She was captured all at once in his lips, and felt the taste of his ecstasy swell in her mouth when she hung her hands about his neck, and his pushed her hair from her face. Her heart beat soft, but fast, and a mass of tension melted from her body at his touches until she felt like putty, breathless and weak.

They untangled slowly, hair-raising clouds of hot breath panting on one another's necks. Gold, damp eyes met blue, wetter ones, and they exchanged an elated laugh before nestling into one another, relishing the touch of their bodies.

Skyhold, for all its gloom and grieving, was so wonderfully magical that come autumn, when its corridors became cold and gloomy as tombs, and frost left its fingerprints smeared across every surface, when the weak heat of bodies leaked the heavy smell of damp hung into the air, it brought admiration to adoration with the most sorrowfully joyous rendezvous. There were places where eyes were a little drier, and the wounds fresher, and most vitally, bonds forged a lifetime stronger.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Dragon Age before but I'm a huge, steaming pile of Vhawke trash, and I felt the need to write something. Let me know if there's something iffy that I've let slide under my nose.
> 
> I really appreciate any kudos, bookmarks and comments left, they always make my day!  
> Thank you! <3


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